Sitting by the window while it rains
listening to Edith Piaf
(just barely audible so I can still
hear the rain and the thunder)
writing in my notebook that smells of
the lavender we pressed between the pages.

Perhaps ‘perfection’ is a paradigm of
time and space when you can feel
completely and unconditionally yourself
pushing a pen across lines of paper
while the lightning strikes outside
(and Non Rien De Rien plays inside)
is where I most truly exist.

BB

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